The Harlequin and the Scarecrow
by Cannibalistic Skittles
Summary: What a lovely pair they make.
1. Respect

He holds little respect for anyone, least of all any within the wretched Gotham, and he would be the first to admit this.

Towards her, he is mostly indifferent.

The choice to don a skintight suit at the whim of a homicidal clown, while not one he could personally endorse, at least added to the number of people willing to spring him in the course of another revolving door escape.

And, of course, it's someone else to act as a potential ally against a non-Rogue threat – such as tonight, with local gangs too stupid to recognize the danger of who they target.

Her help comes in the form of brute strength, quickness and agility, coupled with ever-present goons that intimidate with mere presence.

It is not that he truly needs the assistance to deal with such weak-minded masses – in fact, the worst of the danger came from two thugs with faces painted like masks, who nearly flattened him against the pavement in their eagerness to do some damage. Irritating, if not unsurprising.

Still, they drive back the (now-screaming and terrified, he notes with no small hint of satisfaction) attackers quicker than he would alone, some fleeing from fear of him, some from fear of them – some are simply left unable to flee at all.

He is, really, no worse for wear – but after, he hears her scolding the pair of hired henchman in that way of hers, finger wagging and eyebrows twisting down comically. The subject – himself – is no question, marked by a toss of the head that could have been subtle, would it have not gone against her nature.

Despite the clownish act, her stance is straight, sharp, and she bounces her formidable mallet on her shoulder with an unnatural ease. He's seen her mash bystanders into paste with a single swing. Judging from the nervous air that overtakes them, and the way they nod furiously and dart off as soon as she lets them, they have, too.

A warning in the guise of a joke.

She gives him only a cheery "buh-bye professah!" as she splays her fingers out wide and waves with too much enthusiasm, and then she is bounding off after them.

He tries to avoid spraying her directly with fear toxin when he is next afforded the opportunity.

* * *

[A/N: Using a random word generator to base drabbles around. Next word: Secular.  
…I do apologize for how rushed this sounds.]


	2. Secular

The change is slow.

She tries to integrate herself into the strange social circle of psychologists from the moment she arrives.

Not with him – never with him – getting in his good graces was so far out of the question from the start, and once there, it would put her from the rest – but certainly with the others.

So when she begins to spend more and more lunches away, opting to overview her patients (or the one in particicular) it is… odd.

More lunches away, and she is more withdrawn. She'll answer any question given to her, and all with a note of cheer, but she stops initiating conversations, only scrawling notes enough to fill up the bindings.

She works herself to the point of exhaustion, but keeps that smile fixed on her face. This does not stop her from tripping over air one day, spilling papers everywhere. He helps her on the pretense of a rare moment of humanity, but more for the opportunity of seeing what has had the woman so occupied.

It takes only a moment to scan the papers he hands back to her – always a quick mind he's had. Many of them are worthless, of course, but some of them – _"likely a grain of truth within the stories, whether he knows it or not, but is also feeding lines meant to play on sympathies"_ – some of them have merit.

He makes a note to broach the subject with her, see what information he can glean at some later but not too distant date.

She is Harley Quinn before he can ask her about it, and it is many months before he sees her again.

[A/N: Secular (astronomy): of or denoting slow changes in the motion of the sun or planets; (economics) a fluctuation or trend occurring or persisting over an indefinitely long period_._ …felt like that should be stated, since it's not what leaps to my mind when I hear the word.  
Also, I guess I'm switching between different origin stories. Sorry for the apparent lack of consistency. . Hope you enjoy anyway!  
…such a long note for such a short chapter.]


	3. Outside

There's something special about the moonlight the night after a breakout.

Harley Quinn is as free as a bird, back in costume and newly made up, free to walk where she wants and enjoy the view.

She hums a tuneless song with words she's already half-forgotten, stepping lightly through puddles glimmering black and starlit blue, interspersed with occasional threads of orange, barely seeming weighed down by the hefty weapon slung over her shoulder.

Mass breakouts aren't as _fun_ of course, she muses, watching as plumes of dark smoke overtake lines of the sky from where she stands. They're lovely and chaotic and it's nice to see everyone working together – she steps over an unconscious body as the thinks this – but it's so much harder to pick out her puddin's handiwork.

Still, she knows if she only looks hard enough, they'll be together at last. She'll find her sweetheart – who's surely been missing her terribly, she knows it – and everything'll be as right as rain.

The sound of shouting cuts into her thoughts, and her smile widens. It's not the dispersion of shrieks that have been overtaking the city since Arkham's breach, but a burst of panic, all together, and close.  
Just the place to start investigating.

Everyone in orange knows not to get between the harlequin in search of her beau, so she is unhindered, nearly skipping.

The shouting leads her to an alley – but here, she is greeted not by the sight of her beloved in tones of jewels, but a burlap-clad figure far lankier.

She pouts exaggeratedly and shifts her mallet discontentedly. Her sweetheart must have bigger plans, farther away, but she wishes he were here. He would so revel in this maelstrom.

Her movement draws attention, both from the figure in control and the ones at his feet.

One of those still-lucid, still-struggling – thug or former inmate, she can't be sure – takes the moment of apparent distraction to scramble up and bolt – straight towards her. A well-placed kick stops his momentum; a push with the butt of her mallet against his sternum sends him sprawling back.  
"No, no, no," she chides, giving the man a not-so-gentle kick in the direction of the professor. "You can't leave now! You're going to miss the _punch_line!" She punctuates this with her knuckles against his temple, giggling in the moment before she realizes how unappreciative her audience is.  
She's hit too hard, she thinks at first as he wavers, but then he stands, anger lining his face – forgetting the real threat here until a bony hand lands on his shoulder, and drags him back down.

She grins, and the Scarecrow grins back, the burlap seeming to stretch of its own accord, gas diluting into the air even from here.

The joke gets old after a while – the punchline never changes much – but it makes him laugh. It's just about the only thing that does.

And what kinda girl would she be if she denied him that?

* * *

[A/N: Cover image belongs to GabbyVee on DeviantArt, and is a part of the picture "More Arkham Fun Times."  
Next word: Startle.  
…this one was fun.]


	4. Startle

The noise of pipes sputtering to life startles him awake.

It takes him a moment to gather his bearing – a dilapidated house for a sanctuary, not llong-abandoned, but far too worn for official residents – and from there it is no great task to ascertain why the noise is so out of place.  
There should not _be_ someone to turn on the pipes.

He slips on the mask as by instinct now. He does not possess the all-too-common defense against home intruders – never mind this not being _his_ home – but he has something that can be much more unforgiving in his hands. After all, a gun can only inflict wounds on the physical form.

Dust has stopped up otherwise-creaky floorboards, and he possesses no great weight; he creeps quietly along the hallway. A woman stands there in the kitchen, back to him, and for a moment, he thinks someone has managed to break the lock and slip inside.  
But no; now, one of the hyenas of them nudges against her trustingly, and she threads her fingers absently through its thick, matted hair.

How interesting.

He rubs at his temples and remembers, remembers how the harlequin had burst in on his note taking, costume torn at the side and blood-soaked, turning the red there to rust and looking for a temporary hideout, dragging those two mangy mutts behind her – "won't be here for long, professah, don't you worry! You won't even know we're here!" – and subsequently cleaning out the already-sparse cupboards and generally making a ruckus.

There is no bounce to her step now, as she shuts off the sink to set down the bowl of water, no cheer as she rubs the sleep from her eyes.  
She is still clad in diamond red and black – he does not imagine she has any surplus of wardrobe – now with crude stitching pulling together at her waist.  
Her hair is unkempt and tangled, some strands lying thick with crusted blood; her make-up is only half off around the edges, looking as if were swiped off by clumsy fingers.

Kneeling, she murmurs to her "babies," pulling them close.  
He cannot catch the words, but the voice…  
Lower, and rougher. Little traces of the artificial sweetness she normally coats her speech with.

She looks tired, and worn, and not at all fit to be the shrieking accomplice of the mad clown.

Quietly, he turns away, resolved to catch a moment more of sleep in this rare moment of quiet.

When he wakes next, she is gone. A crudely scrawled note of gratitude and a smear of white paint is the only trace of her.

[A/N: I thought about going for the obvious "well doy, he's the Master of Fear, why wouldn't he be able to startle her" approach, but I think I'll save that for a later day. This was… surprisingly difficult to write. Gotta add in more characters soon, I think.  
Mistress of Fear – I'm glad you enjoyed it, despite it not being your preferred pairing! I must confess to having read very little of Becky Albright, sadly.  
Next word: Product.]


	5. Product

They were each, to some extent, products of their surroundings.

He bows under the pressure of perception, of upbringing, until he can bend no more – but he does not buckle. He uses against his aggressors fear, the very force once made to intimidate him, and he thrives.

She buttons up feelings of insecurity and inadequacy forced upon her behind easy smiles and mild words and continued success that is not, cannot be enough, until a white-stained hand pulls up the corners of her lips and teaches her to smile again.

And then their surroundings are products of _their_ actions.  
Their masks are truer faces and they have no need to change.  
How happy they will be in years to come is unknown... but the relief at shedding years of endured misconceptions could not be ignored.

* * *

[A/N: Uh. Yyyyyyeah, I blanked on this one. I'll do better next time. Which, incidentally, should be up later today.  
Thanks to everyone for your reviews! I love hearing your thoughts! owo  
Next word: Leaf.]


	6. Leaf

The _last_ thing he expected, unmasked in this area far from the Narrows but so similar, was to be recognized, let alone beckoned closer by a muffled voice in a heap of leaves.

Before he can decide whether to just gas them and be done with it, the pile shakes, and a torso wriggles into clarity – a torso in familiar red and black, followed closely by a head that shakes free of leaves as he stills.  
"Fancy seein' you here, professah," she says, voice a pleasant hum. She pats the pile beside her – or at least, he thinks she does, as much of her is still hidden by leaves – and invites, "come and sit?"

Keeping the harlequin's company could be dangerous. Her beloved, sadistic clown jumps between perceiving such closeness as amusing chivalry, or as seeing it as a move on his moll.  
But his latest heists have been splashed over front pages for a week straight, which usually put the clown in a better mood – one where he is less likely to reach with maiming.  
And this besides, refusing the grinning girl generally proved to be an unwise move.

So he follows this with no small amount of caution, gingerly sitting as he wonders at how often a simple afternoon is turned into this.  
He still sinks a good foot into the pile.

Surprisingly, Harley stays quiet long enough to discern the pattern of her breathing; when she breaks the silence, he is not opposed to it. "Ain't it lovely?"  
A glance shows her eyes to be closed, so, grudgingly, he prompts, "what is, child?"  
A hand emerges from brittle red and brown, fingers spread and gesturing. "All a' this. Sittin'. Waitin'. Enjoyin' the moment."  
An interesting sentiment, from her.

"You are most often… on the move," he begins slowly. "You do not often have the time to pause?" He knows she cannot. Quick to make herself known and eager to join her beloved once caught, her visits to Arkham cemented the rumors of its revolving door policy.

"Mistah J's not so fond a' quiet, so there's not much time for it," she laments, linking her arms behind her head, "and it's aaaaalways busy." She kicks her legs out, and leaves scatter out. "But this is… nice. A little lull in the plans is –"

An explosion shatters the tranquility of the scene.

Glass shatters out from one of the brick buildings lining the street up ahead, rocketing out from the force and littering the pavement with glittering shards.  
He is aware of Harley sitting up beside him, staring up the street. "Oooooops. That's my cue." She rises, pulling on her jester hat with practiced ease and breaking into a run. "Seeya professah! It was nice talkin' with ya!" she calls out along the way.  
And she launches into a series of acrobatic leaps, disappearing into the building now engulfed in orange flames.

...well. On the bright side, he would have been much closer to the building had he not paused.

* * *

[A/N: This one's… better? And has actual semi-conversation? I've gotta work on that.

Next word: Intelligence]


	7. Intelligence

Against all odds, she actually possessed a modicum of intelligence.

The white-painted henchmen were usually safer under her directions (or less likely to be left afterwards), conversations rarely turned suddenly sour as they did with her sweetheart, and as flashy and attention-seeking as she was, her attire did not _quite_ cross the line into gaudy.

She was almost pleasant company away from her beloved clown, though the separation had to be particular; not kicked out, or she'd sob to Ivy, not a sudden desire to prove her worth, or she would flaunt her independence, but told gently (or, as gentle as _he_ got) to relocate herself during the making of plans.

Jervis lapsed more frequently into Wonderland when she was out of costume, but into softer repetitions; Eddie found her to be lacking in riddle-solving abilities, but a good sounding board for the ones meant for the mind-numbingly simple ones tailored to Gothamites (and that she reacted theatrically shocked and awed at each answer certainly played to his ego, too); Ivy even seemed less blatantly homicidal in her company, provided the harlequin was not currently perceiving a rough patch in her relationship.

She, like so many others, did not fully grasp at her potential, but wasted it... perhaps marginally less.  
And having a half-decent conversational partner on occasion was not disagreeable.

* * *

[A/N: Next word: Practice.]


	8. Practice (PP1)

The first time he suggests staying with the clown is detrimental to her health – physical and mental both – it was out of friendly concern.  
She punches his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise that lasts a week and refuses to talk to him for his trouble.

The second time, he goes about it differently. He wonders aloud if she wouldn't be happier (not safer, not after last time) staying with someone (anyone) else.  
She chatters on about Ivy for an hour, but even though this leaves him with an aching headache and he makes no real progress, at least she doesn't hit him again.

The third time, she has been Joker-free for a week, and Arkham-bound for longer.  
He does not suggest actually listening to the drivel spouted by the doctors, some of whom actually spout "and-how-does-that-make-you-_feel_s" while sitting on their overstuffed armchairs, but he does ask if she hasn't done better on her own. She shrugs uncomfortably in her restraints – earned from slamming a guard into a wall when he condescends to her – and that's that.

The fourth time he mentions it comes shortly after another scheme – a scheme in which she had unwittingly and forcefully been used as the distraction, flung unceremoniously from a speeding car, _again_. Half her face bears ugly, dark scabs, and she winces with each smile.  
She is quiet for a long while, and when she speaks, she looks more like herself – her _old_ self – than she has in months.  
"Yeah," she says quietly, "maybe you're right."  
It's small, but it's a start.

* * *

[A/N: Next word: Network.  
At one point, I'll be adding 'romance' to the genres, but I felt like marking it before there's anything _actually_ romantic would be… cheating. Not that this is likely to get _particularly_ romantic, with them. And. I'm assuming there _is_ 'friendly concern' sometimes, which is partially based off of the episode "Harley's Holiday," so.  
This is also not likely to tie in with the majority of THatS stories, but, uh… I'm entertaining the idea of making a mini-plot here. I don't know how I'll mark them chronologically, or even if this idea is going to stick, but _if_ I do, every interlinking story will be marked **P**lot **P**oint #. Let's see how that works out, I guess? With how badly strung together this was, it's doubtful it'll be good.]


End file.
